Cadavera Vero Innumera
by H.K.Faulkner
Summary: It's 4E 201, and with an air of enthusiastic bravado, twenty-year-old Aristaeus Tullius arrives in Skyrim with the daunting task of undertaking his first command. But with the horrors of bloody civil conflict awaiting around every corner, war it seems, is never that simple.
1. The Arrival

{|} Cadavera Vero Innumera {|}

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Chapter I : The Arrival

The road became less of a secluded mountain trench and more of a well-used trackway the further north they had travelled. The Pale Pass was broadened by traffic and strengthened in numerous locations by long corduroys of logs in the softer places, but aside from these few things, it just as wild and treacherous as it was described way back in the First Era. 1E 2703. The Akaviri Invasion. Akaviri Commander Mishaxhi. Reman Cyrodiil. He has a soft spot for history; back home, there had been many reference books perched upon his shelves. This was just one favored topic among hundreds. As they ride among the developing mountainside, with large rock formations thrusting further and further into the sky, he can't help but think. Imagine. What would have it been like back then? The Army of Reman, how different had it been?

The Pale Pass was a busy road and saw many travellers. Worn down merchants with oddities and rarities; country folk driving shaggy cattle along. A band of gruff looking mercenaries. The occasional nobleman. Sometimes, a light-stepping hunter with obedient hounds at his heels. Nowadays however, it was the soldiers that most often made use of this road. Supply wagons, territorial patrols, the occasional courier - the road saw them all.

Today, it saw the Fourth Legion. Or, rather - it saw the First Cohort of the Fourth Legion. Trodding steady along at the same thirty mile-a-day pace which had brought them up from Colovia, the solid bulk of soldiers make their way towards Skyrim with unwavering determination. They followed a road that was slowly falling victim to overgrown foliage and grassroots. Officers at the front, footmen following behind. Even in these unfamiliar places, in foreign lands he's only ever heard about in books or seen marked down on maps, he is used to the orderly spectacle that is long-distance marching. The only difference now, however, is that he is no longer actually _marching_. With his newly instated rank, he now has the privilege of riding on horseback.

He's comfortable - intimate, almost, with the experience and despite being quite unused to riding for such a lengthy periods of time, he is able to drift away in thought. Perfectly content.

It's different, he thinks. Skyrim. They had informed him when they crossed the border into the Northern Province, it had been some time ago, but until now there hadn't been much of a difference in his surroundings. The world around him had not been entirely dissimilar from the rest of the trek; narrow road, tall mountains, cold weather. Now, however, with a warmth that only comes with a lower altitude and the creeping growth of sheer... _green_, he can't help but notice the differences.

The Fourth Legion is historically stationed in the Colovian Highlands. Always had been. It was a sparsely populated land - good for war games, and took up the majority of the western foothills. A charming untamed wilderness that one came to understand after a few months of living there. It held no secrets. The highland grass was long, he remembers, standing just taller than a Legionnaires' boots. Good, solid vegetation. The kind of foliage that survived wars; it wasn't delicate. Here in this hold however - Falkreath, the Legate had said - it is entirely different. It's filled with sharp hills, dense pine forests and is constantly blanketed in a fine mist that makes it seem almost seasonless. Filled with deception, it's dense and he never expected it from looking at a map, like the one that was draped across his horse's neck thought the better part of the travel. It was something that had to be seen with his own eyes.

And he's not going to lie, he is glad he has. Seen it, that is.

He rides at the head of the column, the cohort commander, situated alongside Legate Rikke and, a little further along, the general himself. Although he's tried valiantly to keep it concealed, he couldn't help the occasional show of pride as he rides. Either be it in the form of him straightening his shoulders when called or the sudden flash of a grin when he turns to look at the men following him; the delight from his first command was clear. A complete contrast to that of his father, who if anything, seemed almost burdened by the responsibility of rank.

Then again, while he certainly resembled the general, First Centurion Aristaeus Tullius wasn't much like his father to begin with.

The general hadn't bothered himself with Aris thought the journey. Even though they had been traveling little more than a few feet away from one another, the older man had made sure to curtly ignore his only son. It's not the first time, nor will it be the last he expects, and if he was being truly honest with himself, Aris was actually thankful for the distance set. It gave him time to think things over, to put everything into perceptive - because while he was prideful of his rise in rank, he was also downright _terrified_. His first campaign. They're going to war. Not those silly little spats that happened between the Counts and Countesses in Cyrodill, or the occasional public dispute when it came to taxes or the rebuilding effort. A real war. Battlefields and skirmishes - an actual enemy, like in the Great War, but worse.

He wonders if the general had expected this; why else would the older man suddenly be so distant? Not cold, per say, but almost... inaccessible. Perhaps his father was thinking about it too. Aris wasn't going to ask. He didn't want to.

While the general was giving him space however, Legate Rikke had been giving him her undivided attention ever since they crossed the border. Partly because it's her responsibility to tend to a new officer, partly because she enjoys conversation - even if it is one sided, and partly because Aris is young enough to be easily educated in the ways of Nordic culture without the trademark Tullius 'grouchiness' getting in the way.

Though the general made no outward signs of disapproval - he could practically _feel_ the the glares directed at Rikke from here.

Aris snorts quietly to himself, shaking his head.

_'Stop grooming my boy into a heathen barbarian, Legate.'_

There's more to this then creating a simple understanding between them. Aris is kept away from the burden of unnecessary duty in order to focus on developing a firm sense of... well, a firm sense of intellectual and tactical qualities, he presumes. He'll develop into a leader on the battlefield, but there's more to a senior officer then running with a sword in your hand. It was during these tediously long afternoons in his father's war room, listening to the general and the legate bicker about cohort manoeuvres when he came to the realisation. The realisation that the Fourth Legion is unlikely to leaving Skyrim, victory or no. It leaves him with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. He's never _not_ been with this group of soldiers. Even in his short and early days when he was training in the Academy, he was Fourth Legion and he hadn't even muttered an oath yet... not that he'd ever actually _spoken_ an oath, but that wasn't the point. The idea of leaving them was... uncomfortable.

Oh, orders are orders of course and he'd follow them up until perfection, but he can't help the uncertainty. His promotion has only brought the matter to light. In a few years' time, he could be serving in quite a different part of the Empire, since a cohort centurion never often moved up all the way in the same Legion. It was practically unheard of, actually - it only ever happened straight after the war, when the ranks had been all but destroyed. No. He wouldn't move up all the way in the Fourth Legion.

All the way... from his present rank right up to that of his father's. Slowly of course, over time. Step by step. But not alongside the Fourth Legion.

This was also, up until the war, unheard of too. He had been told, time and time again, that this was an example of the _old_ Cyrodillic manoeuvres. That before now, men had to climb the ladder on their own and not rely on their father's own military standing, but times were changing and Aris didn't have to be born before the war to see that. The Empire needs a future. In the past, it needed heroes. In this current present, it needs politicians, but if it was to have a future, then it needed men and woman to lead its armies. Young men and woman like Aris, the sons and daughters of prominent officers. Those youngsters who could be built up, built up strong and hard and ready, so when the Thalmor comes around again, they are facing an Imperial Army that is ready and waiting for them.

He's already developed physically - the Academy saw to that, at this point, he could probably take down most Orcs bare-handed. No. It was here with his first command that he'd grow into the role of a soldier, physiologically, like his father. Or die trying.

Scowling at his surroundings from beneath his helmet, Aris tightens his grip on the reins, making the leather gloves creak. Bring it on. He thinks. "Look ahead there - Helgen, in the flesh." Legate Rikke calls pointing up over the rise of the road. Aris came to the present with a jerk, indeed, the prospect of leading his own Legion in some distant war would have to wait; the reality of his first command sits before him. Leaning up on his saddle to get a better look, he blinks, mouth dropping open slightly. The town, Helgen, was more of a fort in general appearance - bolstered up, an Imperial fortification that had gradually succumbed to the needs of a civilian populace. Filled with solid little wooden buildings that huddled against cold stone watchtowers. They take the form of dark shadows, stark against an evening sky. From his position, he can see Masser and Secunda peaking up over the pines. The cohort will not be traveling into the Nordic town, but rather cutting across towards an Imperial bolstered fortification by the name of Fort Neugrad.

Aris looks down at his map again, from there... they'll follow the road into Whiterun Hold, turning east and continuing on until they reach Solitude. Three more days of travel, two, if on the last day they extend to fifty miles. When he looks back up again, he tits his head as he examines the faint bulge on the distant horizon. Glancing at Rikke, he turns to the side a bit more obviously so she knows her attention is needed. Once she looks at him with a sidelong glance, he points over towards the horizon, at the faint glowing mark.

"It is indeed, Capital of Whiterun Hold." she states almost proudly and the general makes a noise, but otherwise doesn't say anything else.

It's massive. Aristaeus notes, giving his map a final glance before rolling it up smartly and sliding it away. He wonders if it's as big as Solitude. Snapping over towards Caius Scaevola, his personal secretary and better translator, he tilts his head upwards so the man understands and then starts to move his hands accordingly. Caius stares at them for a few moments, nods and turns towards the Legate. "Is it as big as Solitude, Ma'am?"

Rikke thinks for a moment, turning her head away to face the declining road beneath them.

In the Legion she went by many names. _The_ Legate. Tullius' Heavy. The Field Commander. The First Lieutenant. Rikke was her 'real' name, Aris supposes, but whatever her name, whatever face she happened to be wearing, she was a force to be reckoned with. Immovable and unconquerable, a 'True Nord' at heart as she commonly described herself - but of course, the Centurion held no embitterment towards his superior because of this. Only admiration. Rikke was the kind of soldier Aris wanted to follow. He's lucky, he thinks, that he does.

"It's commonly described as the biggest city in Skyrim, befitting for a Capital, I suppose." Rikke then says, turning her head to look at him again. "Whiterun is bigger in the sense that it's more... spaced out."

Aris snaps his hands up, Caius turns back towards the Legate. "Capacious?" he offers and she nods after a pausing to think, smirking at Aris.

"Capacious, but relies almost solely on strong outer walls for defence. Strong as they may be however, they do not hold the majority of Whiterun's agricultural land inside." the legate explained, watching the shape of Whiterun over on the horizon. "Solitude on the other hand is of an eminently defensible nature. Big, sprawling, but it's wall's cover everything worth covering." then, with a smirk, she brings the conversation to a close, probably for his benefit rather than hers. "You'll see for yourself, of course."

Aris takes the time to try and imagine that, gaze flicking over to watch the road before them. The map he currently has of use is not very informative. Boarders between the holds drawn in harsh lines, all the major roads sprawled in ink and the insignia of each city drawn upon the parchment, but nothing to show the size or layout of each city, nothing to distinguish the size of each mountain to the other. He'd like to get his hands on one. A proper one. Yes, he'd like that very much. He's always had a strange fascination with maps and had collected them incessantly thought his youth. He recalls now, that the majority of them were old - the oldest spanning right into the late second Era. They were useless, all things considered, but they somehow appealed to him.

Fort Neugrad, Aris realised, also appealed to him, in an archaic, cold and depressing kind of way.

The road led straight down towards Helgen but the traveling cohort of soldiers turned away to follow a slightly less beaten, but more weathered, pathway of sorts. Once they got close enough, a few crimson cloaked Legionnaires on duty turned to look at the cohort as it swung by, a gaze that was reserved and intrigued, rather than that of hostile. The general passes through the gate first, spurring his horse into a faster walk, shadowed loosely on three sides by his bodyguards - big men, tough fellows, handpicked from a century of praetorians. Fort Neugrad was, for the time being, under the command of Salvius, one of Legate Rikke's men and a tribune turned centurion jockeying for the position of Primus Pilus in Skulnar's Falkreath cohort. The grey-haired veteran stood over towards one side, directly before the door that led into the depths of the fort, his jaw hardened as he examined the group of soldiers. He was a fine officer, Aris knew, tough, efficient and courageous. He was one of those Legionnaires that would maintain the highest standards of the centurionate to the very end.

He was, however, a downright horrible instructor. This Aris knows about indirectly.

With a muffled grunt, General Tullius raised himself up to stand in his stirrups, slipping one leg over the back of his mount and dropping to the ground with a solid thunk of shifting armour. The rest of them follow suit, and Aris grimaces when he realises how damn sore he was. He's no stranger to a horse, but riding for this long at this frequency was a novel experience up until now. Standing smartly, he watches as the general gives the fort a casual few glimpses from under his helmet. The Legionnaires already stationed here stand to gruff attention, the rhythmic clatter of fists slamming into Imperial plate acting as the final warning of his arrival.

A far younger tribune marches over towards them, stopping a respectable distance away and clicking the heels of his boots together. "General Tullius, sir." he greets and the man in question nods slowly, silently acknowledging the boy. "Orders for the remainder of the cohort, sir?"

Exhaling, the general gives the expanse around him another look. "State of the defences?" he asks, quietly.

"Well manned and well-conditioned, sir."

The general nods his head again. "In that case, have the cohort fed and bunked down immediately. I want them ready and able to move out tomorrow."

Another click of boots. "As you command, general."

"As for Salvius' lot, have the reserves clear the ground - set up tents for Rikke's mob and send for my secretary. Those are my orders for now, Tribune. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir."

Turning around, the general removes his helmet with a grimace. "Legate, tend to your men. Report in once you are finished. As for you, Centurion, you're with me. We have a lot to go through before we move out again."

_Centurion_.

Aris tries and fails to hold back the pang of satisfaction at the title. If the general had noticed it, he doesn't let it show, but rather waves the legate off when she salutes in temporary farewell. Aris turns towards Caius and gives him a similar wave, though the definition behind his gesture was slightly more different. He wouldn't need the man for this meeting; the general can understand him and even if he couldn't, they had paper in which Aris could write on. Communication wasn't going to be an issue.

Without a word, the general turns and makes for the other centurion, who meets them a quarter of the way there, saluting smartly at both of them. Technically now both father and son outrank him. It's a strange feeling for Aristaeus, considering how just a few days ago it would have been him saluting at both of them. Stopping to a tentative halt, Salvius gives Aris a nod, a gesture in which he returns.

"General, sir. Centurion. All quiet on this front."

"Good." the general grumps as he moves past the man, Aris is hot on his heels. When when they get further into the fort, he undoes his chin strap and removes his helmet, before tucking it under one arm and brushing his hair to one side with the palm of his hand, grimacing all the way. He didn't like wearing the odd, heavy helmet of a higher ranked officer. It was one-sided and tended to mess with his vision, as opposed to the simple steel things he was used to before.

Blinking into the developing darkness, his eyes ache as they struggle to adjust with the sudden change in light level. "I can't _deal_ with the Stormcloaks today." his father grumbles darkly and Aris smirks in response. The general has only been in Skyrim for the better part of six hours. Glancing over his shoulder at Aris, he clicks his tongue and pauses, frowning. "I'm correct in thinking that all my paperwork is being securely stored, Salvius?" he calls to the lower-ranking officer.

"You would indeed, sir." Salvius nods. "It's... with your secretory, I believe."

The general grunts again, turning towards Aris. "Go fetch it for me, eh? Can't make plans without foresight."

Aris nods, as curtly as such a gesture could be before clicking his heels and turning off down the corridor. The general watches him leave right up until he turns around the corner, before moving back on. The room that was to be acting as his temporary office was unsurprisingly spacious, though ill fitting - it clearly wasn't a fort that was equipped for housing officers, but rather, from what Tullius had heard beforehand, a fortification used for housing prisoners of war. He had yet to see the prison for himself. Nor did he expect too unless it was necessary. The far side was where the battered desk stood and the general sat behind it immediately, planting his helmet to one side and unstrapping his bracers, which join the helmet soon afterwards.

Salvius hesitated obviously and in response, Tullius gives him a sharp glance. "What is it?" his voice was more clipped than usual, but things had been stressful lately, and it was likely to be a reoccurring experience.

"Just a question, sir." the grizzled junior officer lowered his voice, as if to hide his conversation from others, despite them being the only two people in the room. His bodyguards where positioned outside the door and unless Tullius suddenly started shouting for help, they would stay that way. "Is the lad alright? You get my meaning, I hope."

The general's expression doesn't lighten up, if anything, it gets even sharper. "He's perfectly healthy."

"Just I remember him back in Cyrodiil right before we left, sir. He sounded like he had a bad chest cold when he spoke. Couldn't say much - _didn't_ say much unless he could help it, and well, I just assumed-"

"I trust your men will be ready for our departure tomorrow, as scheduled?" Tullius interrupts him clean, tone even, but forceful.

The centurion paused. "Well... yes, sir. Same can't be said about your own troops however; the rain may start washing out the roads."

Tullius exhales. "Just make sure to keep them intact until then, that's all I can ask for now."

"Ah, yes sir."

"That will be all, Salvius."

Shaking his head as the other Imperial clicks his heels and slams his hand into his chest with the dismissal, Tullius runs a hand through his hair, exhaling loudly. Out of all the things he didn't want to go through, that was one of the ones at the top of the list. He's just about exhausted all the air from his lungs when there is a sharp knock at the door again, and Aris returns with a reasonably large pile of parchments clasped in one hand. The general straightens himself up in his seat, watching as the younger man puts his helmet down on a relatively nondescript table and walks over to plant the documents down on the desk. He takes them without a word, shifting through them with a small frown.

Aris meanwhile picks out a spot to stand in, examining the room with a small tilt of the head. He doesn't seem to assume that anything is amiss.

"Well then, Aris. How was the journey?" the general asks after a few moments, and the younger man makes a face. His father had been there of course, so he knew how the journey had gone, but right here, right now, the general was simply asking to be polite.

It's something he's able to figure out pretty simply. There are numerous small signs, but it was how he was referred too that was the biggest giveaway. Quite simply, he's 'Aris' to his father and, now, 'Centurion' to the general. A simple, straightforward trend Aris has been familiar with ever since... well, pretty much forever. So much so, that he finds himself adopting accordingly no sooner than his father's words are spoken. Responding in a cordial fashion, if slightly reverent - as opposed to being strictly obedient.

'I can't feel my legs'. Aris replies with a sharp few hand gestures and the General just snorts.

"Well, you better start getting used to it. If we are lucky, perhaps not straight away." examining the room with a slow head tilt, the general frowns. "Those so-called Stormcloaks are likely to be cautious once rumours of our arrival begin to circulate." glancing at Aris' raised eyebrow, his disgruntled frown turns into something slightly more serious. "We don't expect any immediate problems, after all, you shouldn't throw forces at an adversary you do not yet know, much less can predict. Even a _genius_ like Ulfric should be able to figure that one out."

Aris nods, he knows this of course, but he took the lesson all the same. It's just a conversation at the moment. Though, the commander doesn't expect it to last much longer - they're busy men at the end of the day.

"At any rate, you can expect to be sitting in on a string of court sessions and social gatherings until the bastard decides to make a move."

His expression twists again as he tries to find a way of making his distaste in any way acceptable. In the end, he settles on asking a question, diverting the attention. 'How different are their politics to ours?' he asks, even though Aris wasn't very fond of their own to begin with. Aside from the obvious barriers, he doesn't have the patience nor the passive aggressiveness required for a courtroom. He's like his father in that sense; with a gruff impatience that was better for battles with soldiers then that of wits. Though Aris definitely had more youthful turbulence, an air for mischief and the general knows it - hence the whole 'sitting in' thing.

Aris wouldn't be very useful in a courtroom, at least, not without Caius, but he's going to have to learn the tricks of the trade sooner or later.

"I'm not completely certain." his father answers, but there's a sense of distaste in his words. "But from what I've seen so far, I wouldn't hold my breath when it came to these Nords." leaning back in his chair, the general traces the left hand side of his jaw absently. "Of course, it's not just the Nords we'll be dealing with, but if we stamp down this rebellion quickly enough we shouldn't have to bother ourselves with the First Emissary's company more than a few times." Aristaeus huffs then and his father scowls at his hands as he replies.

'A few is far too many.'

The general grunts in agreement, lip curling upwards. "Just be sure not to advertise that around her, eh?" Aris can't help himself, he has to let the lopsided grin slip. "Regardless, pull up a chair, son - we've got a lot to get through before we win this war in earnest."


	2. Cohort Commander

{|} Cadavera Vero Innumera {|}

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Chapter II : Cohort Commander.

Since leaving Cyrodiil, it had been a fair few weeks since Aris had last awoken in any form of stronghold. Not those crumbling old forts dotted around Skyrim's landscape, were half of the men stationed there had to be accommodated in tents outside in the courtyards, but rather the massive, stone structures that were built for whole Legion armies. Castle Dour was one of those places - it reminded him of the Fourth Legion's headquarters back near Chorrol. In fact, the only major difference he could come up with was the change in climate.

Much like the headquarters, he hadn't liked Castle Dour. Mainly because it became immediately apparent that it was one of those places that would never grow on you. Perhaps, over time, he'd become familiar enough to be somehow comfortable, but Aris severely doubted that he'd be able to adapt to its oppressive nature. At least, not very easily. The castle was like a lot of the places he'd been stationed in over the years; clean, sparse and with an atmosphere that practically screamed of martial order. Despite its seemingly indestructible feel, it had at some point seen some action, perhaps a siege, or a bout of bad weather, because despite being thrust up on top of a stretch of mountainside a few once proud turrets closest towards the north-western side had since crumbled, giving it the faint impression of a dishevelled party hat. Moss clung to the walls in many places, dried out by the sea air, metal fixtures had rusted and the cobbled parade ground had been worn smooth with use.

Despite that, the castle still stood proud. Strong. Almost undefeatable in its pride.

Then, Imperial architecture is known for such.

For Aris however, his first thoughts upon awakening were not of appreciation, but rather of faint bewilderment and concern. He had expected to wake up facing the roof of his tent, to hear the clamour of Legionnaires and the faint barking of orders, to feel a weak breeze on his face. Instead, he awoke with his head buried into a pillow he didn't recognise as his own, with unfamiliar linens twisted around his legs and middle, with a solid roof over his head; he studied it silently, wide eyed and frowning.

Aris lifted himself up onto his elbows in order to look around the room, momentarily disoriented with his change in surroundings.

He'd been exhausted last night; he must have just gone straight to bed without getting a good look at anything. Stifling a yawn, the commander got out of bed, tugging fitfully as he disentangled himself form the clingy sheets. His quarters were slightly more spacious then what he was normally used to, but overall, did not differ much in appearance to his old room back in Cyrodiil. The decor just screamed of military order; plain walls, simple furniture, neatly ordered equipment - he does note with a small smile however that the directorial atmosphere was disrupted slightly by his cloak begin strewn carelessly over the back of a nearby chair. Aris decides to leave it where it was - if the general complains, the general complains.

Today they would be receiving guests at the Blue Palace. A rather peculiar situation, the commander feels. He and the rest of the Legion that had come up from Cyrodiil were only guests in Solitude, and yet, they were going to have guests of their own.

Padding over towards his trunk, he flipped the latches and lifted the top and started rummaging around for the shirts that went under his uniform. He'd just pulled out one when with a tilt of his head, he spotted a cabinet standing dejectedly in one corner of the room. Its alarming presence proved his suspicions, he really hadn't noticed anything last night. Out of curiosity, he folded the shirt over one arm and wandered up to it, tugging the doors open and frowning into the space.

Inside he found several sets of civilian looking outfits, no doubt meant for him, or someone like him, he supposed. It wasn't just limited to clothes, there was a few cloaks, fur lined things with the unmistakable Nordic cut and a pair of civilian boots. Thicker and heavier than that he was used to. They must be for when he goes on leave. Why else would they be in a soldier's living space? Regardless, none of them were really to his tastes. Aris was used to wearing outfits that were martial cut, or at a push, of some pseudo form. He didn't own many civilian garments, now that he thought about it; all of his clothing, unless it was a thick overcoat for cold weather or his sleepwear, was made to make him resemble a Legionnaire. It's just something he'd grown up with.

Not that it would matter either way; he'd be wearing his uniform regardless. He was on duty for one, and he'd defiantly feel more comfortable that way. Back to his things.

Not being able to speak frequently enough without causing himself some form of agony, Aris tended to lean towards the more visual elements of the world, when it came to personal appearance, and in everything else. He could map out a new area in his head easily, making it hard for him to get lost. He never forgot a face, even if the name took a little longer to sick, or if he never says it aloud. He had even taught himself how to sketch well enough that if he wasn't a soldier, it was widely considered that he'd be perusing the habit full time.

As a direct result, it distressed him when he wasn't correctly dressed. Of course, Aris couldn't help scratches or dents - that is what armour was for, after all, but he could help making sure that his uniform was perfect. Over his shirt and the knee-length trousers they had adopted ever since getting familiar with Skyrim's weather, Aris pulled on a slightly thicker, slightly longer over-tunic and then the decorative apron of leather straps that were, _supposedly_, there to make sure that his groin was protected - even though in reality, they wouldn't stop a sodding feather, never mind a Stormcloak axe. What followed after that was the leather armour that sat directly under his plate. A second layer of defence, as well as a functional set of padding that stopped his plate from chafing. Once this was suitably in place, he went back to the red under-tunic and folded it near his throat so it was sitting lower, before tucking it back in. Aris checked in the mirror to find that it covered the scars along his throat. Not required - but comfortable, for him. He didn't want people staring. The plate took slightly longer to put together; the thick steel that covered his shoulders, chest and back - and would defiantly stop a Stormcloak axe - was tedious to fit alone and often required soldiers to get help from their comrades in order to make it sit correctly, but Aris had been doing it long enough himself to get it right. He didn't want to trouble anyone.

The general for one approved of such self-sufficiency, even when he wasn't yet at the top of command, he had orderlies and household staff but often neglected them, often expressing the same 'if you want something done right, do it yourself' attitude. Aris' mother was less insistent on doing everything by herself, stressing that such staff were there for a _reason_. That it was ok to get help now and again.

"They're only here to do their jobs you know." he remembers her telling his father one time when he was little.

The general had simply looked up, huffing slightly. "In many ways," he had replied. "So am I."

That special brand of stubbornness was apparently hereditary too, much to his mother's everlasting exasperation.

Aris wouldn't have to wear his helmet as of yet, but he gives it a once over regardless, making sure nothing was amiss before retrieving his belt, pulling it tight and checking that the Imperial Legion's insignia was planted firmly in the centre. His sword came afterwards, the medium sized blade hung comfortably against his upper right leg, ready to be cross-drawn at a moment's haste. He checked again to make sure he was in order, titling slightly, examining everything. There was no glaring flaws. Good. Standing as straight as he could, he moved through the archway, past the barracks that housed his century before opening the door into his office.

This room at least was something he was used to, if a little bare at the moment. Aris hadn't done anything to add to it yet, but he can see in a couple of weeks, that it is going to become very cluttered very quickly if he didn't keep on top of it. He took a seat behind the desk and tried to get a feel of it, before placing his helmet aside and glancing down at the parchments already presented neatly on the desktop. Reports on the new auxiliary tent groups - he'll have to go and check up on them personally, preferably this morning at some point.

He made a faint noise of acknowledgement to himself as he started reading, recognising his second in command's handwriting immediately as he tried to push through the words with varying levels of difficulty. While Sejana's handwriting wasn't untidy, it was hard to separate a's from e's and she didn't dot over her i's, making them easily mistakable for l's. He's three pages in - and sprouting something of a migraine - when Caius knocks on his door, walking in soon afterwards. He's carrying more papers. "Sir, if you could just sign these." handing the documents to the commander, Caius also nods his head in thought. "- and you are to report to the general in half an hour."

Aris could only nod.

The documents turned out to be reports on the whole strength of his century, as well as preliminary briefings form Legate Rikke into what they'll likely be facing in the near future. Work for later on in the evening, at any rate. The papers he is to sign are simple deployment matters, he realises and moves over to grab his quill, signing his name numerous times over and only stopping to check the differences between each paper. Aris had been warned frequently over the past few years that you have to check before you sign - many times politicians and other officers had tried to sneak things in. If something you didn't expect or authorise happens it is likely that on the paperwork, your signature is the one that authenticated it, and if that's the case, then it's your own fault. It takes longer, granted, to read absolutely everything, but it never hurts to be careful.

Nodding as he hands those specific documents back, he rests his palms against the desktop. He still has to check up on his men. Though that could take a few hours in total. Grumbling internally to himself, Aris flicks his gaze up to meet Caius' and excuses himself with two subtle hand gestures, to which the tribune just nods at.

"Will there be anything else then, sir?"

Aris stopped reluctantly and thought, bringing his hands up soon afterwards.

'Tell her to meet me as soon as possible.'

"Very well, sir."

'Her' being 'Sejana' - Caius has known Aris long enough to know the potential double meanings behind certain words. An attribute in which the commander is grateful for.

Grabbing his helmet, Aris moved past Caius and made his way over towards his father's office. He might as well as set off now, he won't be able to get anything else done otherwise, and he can't do anything at the moment without knowing his new orders. Some part of him tells him to enjoy it while it lasts - he'll probably be swamped by orders in the near future when the war kicks off properly.

Aris shakes his head. It'll happen when it happens.

The general wasn't in his office, it turned out, but instead inside one of various war rooms. It wasn't as big as the one upstairs, but it was spacious enough to contain a large wooden table that was in a state of half organised clutter. The general himself was stood examining what looked to be a smaller scale map of some hold or another judging by the detail of the landscape and the lack of territorial lines, lent against his knuckles with a terrific frown upon his face. A brooding Rikke stood off at one side and it seemed that the only person who wasn't either scowling or frowning was Adventus Caesennius, the Solitude Legate, who offered Aris a small smile when the commander walked into the room.

Aris was familiar with Adventus - he'd been a soldier for just about as long as the general and had been a permanent sort of figure as he was growing up. He was like the brother his father never wanted and the uncle Aris secretly wished he really had.

The general looks up just as Aris stops, looking impassive as his son goes through the required salute. "I was just about to send a runner for you." the general frowns. "The matter of your missing third, fourth and fifth groups has been fixed - auxiliary troops from the Reach have been called in to fill the ranks. I suspect you'll want to introduce yourself."

He was starting to get sick and tired of nodding so much.

"They're not as trained as the Legionnaires you're used to." the general warns. "But Legate Rikke ensures me they are more than suitable replacements."

Rikke gives the general an unreadable look. "They are, sir."

The general just grunts, then immediately snaps his gaze to Aris' hands when he brings them up ever so slightly. 'Have then been formally written in?' he asks, brow lowered ever so slightly. Usually only officers of his calibre are allowed to sign them on, but when it came to Aris' troop of soldiers, things often changed to suit his needs. Not that it was an issue here. He was occasionally mute for his own comfort, not illiterate. He'd be confused as to why, if they have indeed been written in without his consent.

"No," the general manages to give him a small smirk. "But I expect that's a matter you can get to later on - the documents haven't been drawn up yet."

More paperwork. _Fantastic_.

'What if I don't finish in time?.'

"I wasn't aware that idle chitchat was on the list of things you needed to learn, much less observe." the general mutters. "It doesn't matter - by the time you're finished, the meeting wouldn't have even started. You'd merely miss the introductions."

Although it went unspoken - or well, _unsigned_ in his case - Aris was pretty damn thankful. He's not too keen on standing around like some kind of damn ornament; he's too much of a fidget to just stand there looking pretty. Drumming his fingers, folding his arms, twitching - a few of the many mannerisms of his that displease the general to no end. There are only so many 'stop fidgeting' and 'pay attention' warnings his father can give before he bursts an artery.

_Really, everything considered, the man should have more pressing concerns._ Aris thinks.

Of course, this too goes unspoken, for obvious reasons.

* * *

**{**II**}**

* * *

"_Attention_!"

Aris watches impassively as his second in command, Sejana, sends his men into a fit of action. At the sound of her sharp accent, the mistakable consistent anger in her tone and the sheer... violence threatened by her voice, they all jump away from whatever they were doing and move quickly over into the centre of the courtyard, standing to attention in neat rows. A recently practiced affair to the newer troops, Aris realises with a small amount of observation on his part. The Legionnaires that had come up with him from Cyrodiil were far calmer, already used to the idea of standing perfectly still, gazes locked forwards, faces expressionless.

From behind him, Caius gives the centurion a faint frown. "Do you wish me to translate, sir?" he asks, tone kept low so none of his soldiers could overhear.

"No." Aris replies and he grits his teeth ever so slightly. A spoken word.

Sejana stands before the soldiers, scowling from beneath her helmet and Aris tucks his hands against the small of his back, starting at the left hand side and slowly walking across, examining the lines of soldiers. Although none of them move, he can feel the change in atmosphere - so he tilts his chin up and pushes his chest out ever so slightly.

His throat was going to hate him for a week.

"At ease!" he barks, ignoring the sudden stab of displeased agony. His voice, all things considered, did not suggest any serious damage - his accent was still there, he could still shout, but it was rasping slightly, like an old man, even though his face was young. Resisting the urge to swallow, he turned around on his heels again and made his way back. The men shuffled obediently, standing with their hands behind their backs, their gazes fixed on him. A few of them look displeased. Aris doesn't blame them - he's young, a lot younger than some of them. Though he's not sure, Aris wouldn't think that a culture such as theirs would find it acceptable. Hardly old enough to be a man. Certainly too young to lead men.

He'll just have to prove them wrong.

"Is this what I am given?!" he demands, gasping in a harsh intake of breath and immediately regretting it when the cold air does absolutely nothing to soothe his throat, but rather, makes it far worse. He walks in silence for a few seconds, trying to get a grip on his voice without letting it waver - that would be embarrassing. "I command the finest cohort in the Fourth Legion - and what have I been given? A group of uncultured, worthless, piles of horseshites!"

It's not in any way true, of course, but he's seen legates do similar things before. "I've read reports from Legate Rikke and if they weren't damming enough from I see here - ladies, I'm not impressed." letting out a quiet gasp, he blinks away the pain and puts on a straight face. Stupid, stupid, but making an impression on the battlefield - like he had wanted to do, was no longer an option. The men here needed to know he was in control now, they can't wait. "The Imperial Legion demands discipline from its soldiers! It demands every last shred of energy and commitment-" something hitched in this throat before he could try and say the next word and he was forced to expel his breath. This throat scraped and tingled with every new sound, getting worse with every passing moment. He stops when he gets to the middle, standing firm just before his second in command.

"This blend of attributes is what makes the finest of soldiers, Auxiliaries - and this century is expected to be filled with the very best." idly, Aris imagined himself to be coughing blood before the hour was through. He'd have to drink every healing potion in a sodding ten mile radius to soothe the pain. "Look to the left..." he demands, watching as the startled auxiliaries do just that. "Now look to the right." they do and he lowers his tone ever so slightly. The auxiliaries are placed in the middle of the line, almost, so they were surrounded by Cyrodiilic Legionnaires on two sides.

"_These_ men, honest, trained Legionnaires of the Fourth Legion are ready. They are ready to be led into battle against the Stormcloak rebels." he slams a fist into his armour, increasing the volume again and inadvertently making himself wince. "_I_ am ready to lead my century into battle against the Stormcloak rebels."

Well, he won't be, if he has to stay in the healer's with a busted throat, but Aris lets that thought slide away.

"So of course, I've been given the most useless, untrained, hopeless specimens of underdeveloped auxiliaries of the lot." he starts moving again, bunching his firsts so tightly that he was sure if he clenched them any harder, his knuckles would break. "But we are Imperial Legion and to one trial, we shall now add another. No matter what obstacles that in our way." he shouts this part, suddenly grateful that his voice held firm, even if it was wearing out ever so slightly. Hopefully not enough to be that noticeable. "What are we, First Century...?"

"Imperial Legion!" the Legionnaires from Cyrodiil suddenly bark out, loud, enough for a lot of the other soldiers milling around and a few guardsmen to turn their heads and watch.

Aris nods. "An army is only as good as the men serving within it. You will be good soldiers, or you will fail and I'll be forced to break you down and build you up personally. Because now, you are -"

Close to the entire century shouts it out this time. "Imperial Legion!"

"Excellent!" Aris barks, but he rolls his eyes with a stifled groan soon afterwards. "Sejana, carry on."

"Yes, sir!"

Backtracking towards Caius, Aris turns around on his heels and just about stops himself from grabbing his throat then and there. It went better than usual, but it's in no way comfortable.

Although he had little hope of speaking normally, Aris had indeed come a long way, all things considered. His vocal cords were badly damaged, torn and improperly healed, so much so that it was at first, impossible for him to even speak, but Aris was stubborn - he had tried and tried and practiced until he very nearly shouted himself hoarse on some occasions. After fourteen years, he was now capable of speaking coherently, but by the Gods, would it _hurt_. It was one of the reasons why he relied so heavily on sign language, it wasn't worth it, he had been told time and time again, to keep on speaking when all it caused was unnecessary pain.

He had been told, that he should only ever speak unless it was vitally important - when he had absolutely no other option. It wasn't worth making it worse.

But as the Auxiliaries move with re-energized movements, Aris couldn't help the way his lips pulled into what felt like a permanent grin of triumph, something he couldn't control. They'll remember him - he'll prove himself completely worthy in battle, but he's defiantly made an impression. His throat was aching so much by now that he felt sharp slivers of pain shooting through the sensitive flesh, but it was a secondary sensation next to the grin.

"If you don't mind be saying sir, I think a trip to the healer's is in order." Caius states idly, barely managing to keep the smirk hidden when he sees Aris' grin.

Letting out a half groan half wheeze, Aris nodded his head in agreement.

'I don't want to have to do that again.' he signs and the tribune just frowned.

"If you find yourself in the position that you have to, sir, I suggest you just let Sejana do all the shouting." Caius frowns. "Or, perhaps you should ask Legate Rikke?"

Aris shakes his head. He can't do that - getting a legate to shout at your soldiers was the equivalent of a schoolboy getting his tutor to yell at a pack of playground bullies. He just hopes that it won't come to that again. Cursing under his breath, he tried to rack his brain for some kind of way around it. A lot of the Imperials under his command he can control, to some degree - they know him, enough to know that he's dependable enough, that he's worthy enough , but Nords... they aren't going to like taking orders from him of all people. After all, a lot of the Imperial's don't. They'll follow him, but they don't like it.

Aris is easy to recognise; he's one of the youngest senior centurions in the Fourth Legion and he could see that even now, a lot of them resented him. He'll have to go in hard and quick, establish dominance without it coming to any form of physical blows. The Nords might respect it, but it was unbecoming of an Imperial Officer. A good commander shouldn't have to make threats, never mind beat his own men to make a point.

He didn't want to shove people around. His father didn't have to shove people around to get what he wanted. Rikke didn't have to shove people around to get what she wanted.

Aris sighs, shaking his head. He'll just have to prove himself in battle. Hopefully, it will come sooner rather than later. Perhaps. If he's lucky.


	3. Elisif

**{|}** Cadavera Vero Innumera **{|}**

* * *

Chapter III : Elisif.

Until a few years ago, he'd never have assumed it, but in all actuality, it was writing letters home that was the most difficult of things.

After watching his century perform marching drills up and down the expanse of the courtyard for the better part of an hour, Aris had spent no time in visiting the healers and getting a few bottles of _something_ to soothe the pain violently gnawing at the base of his throat. They hadn't asked and he hadn't explained; no sooner than he had the bottles, he was gone again to retrieve his cloak from his quarters. As an afterthought, he had popped into his office to see if the pile of as-of-currently abandoned paperwork had grown in his absence.

It had, if only slightly. A folded parchment - a letter, nonofficial and finely sealed, had been left on top of his work.

For some reason it had taken Aris aback. He had stood there frozen in place, half leaning over the desk with his hand extended to pick it up, unmoving. He blinks. Then frowns. Flexing his fingers in order to grasp some coherent thought processes, he picks up the parchment and examines the handwriting. Personal dispatches were easy to identify, usually because whoever wrote it is likely to also be the person behind it. It was only with the official things, or letters from people you were unacquainted with, that was hard to identify. On an official case, usually the sender has a personal secretary doing the work for them.

At any rate, he recognised the neatly ordered flourish before him almost immediately. It leaves him feeling vulnerable and Aris blinks again, finger's grasping at the sharp edges, the pads of his thumbs pressed against the bottom corners.

It was a letter from his mother.

Letting out a small exhale, Aris plants the parchment under the ink-pot. He'll read it later. Then he'll write back. Right now he can't do anything; he needs to go.

Even as he walks towards the Blue Palace, he couldn't stop thinking about the letter. It made his stomach tighten. Whenever he wrote letters to anyone; family, friends, acquaintances- he wasn't entirely sure of what to write about. He'd talked to other soldiers about it, older fellows with wives and children of their own, old soldiers who wrote to their family more than they talked. Aris however, didn't have a woman of his own, and he defiantly didn't have any children - the general would no sooner kill him. So he couldn't really use the older men as an example.

It was even harder to write to his mother. He didn't want to scare her, nor didn't he want to write so much that she'll get upset when she ended up reading it. It's terrifying enough to have a husband out fighting wars, never mind her only child. Usually he just wrote about what he'd seen, about the shapes and sounds, colours and discoveries. Sometimes he'd complain about his commanding officers. Most often, he'd complain about his father. He'd ask her about what she was doing, tell her not to be too concerned - that he was _fine_ and then he'd plead for her to write back soon. Although his letters could span over three pages long, sometimes, he often wondered if he was holding something back. He couldn't help but feel that he was missing something. As he walks, gait stiffened slightly by the weight of his armour, he wonders what it could possibly be.

Aris also wondered if it was difficult for the general too.

It was hard to picture; the stoic, taciturn and downright formidable force that is General Gaius Tullius struggling over things such as a simple letter. Though it defiantly wouldn't surprise him if it turned out to be true. He knew his father kept the letters sent to him. Always. Aris had come across the childish sprawls that his five-year-old self had written, well over a decade old, but still neatly folded and kept aside. He had been told why; it kept his father going, to re-read crumpled correspondence. It reminds him of what he was fighting for.

The centurion looked around with a slight frown, taking in the tall buildings that reminded him of home. Is this what they are fighting for? For this Nordic landscape that felt distant and familiar all at once? As he takes in the weathered shingles neatly ordered along the rooftops, the neatly tended foliage and worn cobble streets, he can't help but remember one of the general's most recent lectures. Right before they arrived, the travelling group of Legionnaires had marched past a group of Thalmor soldiers - Justiciars, he had been told and once they got well out the way, the general had scowled, hard. Displeasure radiating so obviously that for a split moment, Aris had wondered if he was to blame and had snapped around in surprise.

"This damn rebellion is nothing more than a mere interlude in the Empire's real conflict with the dominion." The general had said then, raising a hand and bunching his hand into a fist for emphasis.

The general had looked at Aris after that, properly looked at him, with his fist still tightened and the younger man had silently prepared himself for another lecture. It wasn't in any way a negative thing; if the general wasn't teaching him something, he wasn't doing much else in regards to his son. There wasn't much they could do anymore.

"No matter what these Nords may tell you, know that this entire conflict can be blamed on completely the Thalmor. A tactic to ensure that the Empire wastes precious resources and soldiers on their own supporters, so when they come around again, we are less prepared and able to respond. You'll do well to remember that, Centurion. Remember who the _real_ enemy is."

At the time Aris had just nodded as if he understood, helmet shifting ever so slightly that the padding ended up pressing against his temples and agitating his hairline.

Aris did not know what to think about it, in all truthfulness. He _knew_ that he was supposed to despise the Thalmor - in many ways, he did, really, really did, but he's always been one to over-think things. He can't help it. Surely, there's more to this rebellion than just a well-timed distraction. It felt just too real to be an interlude. While the Fourth Legion wasn't the most glamorous of fighting forces, it was one of the toughest; it had survived the war, after all. Surely they of all soldiers wouldn't have been sent here if they weren't expecting any kind of resistance. Hell, he never said it, but his father firmly believes that Ulfric Stormcloak and his rebellion are a threat to the Empire which _has_ to be eradicated.

Then again, the general also frequently refers to the Stormcloak as 'nothing more than a power-hungry usurper' or 'that Nord bastard' on a particularly bad day, so perhaps his father wasn't the best of examples.

He resists the urge to bite his bottom lip in thought as he thinks the matter over, examining the gradually transforming scenery around him absently. A few children run by as he walks down the main avenue towards the Palace, people mill about, their motions suggesting a carefree air, but there was an overall feeling of tension. When people looked at him, they saw a soldier. More evidence that _their_ country was at war, split between itself.

The Blue Palace was far more impressive up close than from afar, if that was even possible.

It was a stark contrast to the nearly monastic Castle Dour, that much was certain. Aris had been taken to see places like this when he was little, impressive structures that were still being repaired after the Great War and even though a lot of them had been damaged, down but not out, he had been impressed. He was impressed with the Blue Palace too. Very Colovian, a staunch reminder that it was originally designed as the seat of the Imperials. Yet it also had a certain... flair about it that made it feel typical of any Jarl's palace. It's a difficult mix to get right, Aris feels, but Solitude does it well. Very well.

Aris wasn't able to examine it for much longer, because Legate Rikke came out from his blind-spot and prompted him into a walk. She's not wearing her dress uniform, like he had expected. He knew the general had, though Aris himself had also seemingly decided to just stick with his usual things. After all, Aris wasn't the one that needed to make an impression. It was the general who needed to ensure the powers of Skryim that he was indeed the capable leader the Empire made him out to be, and there's no better way aside from a forceful personality then an impressive uniform to show it. "You're early." She notes in the way of greeting. Rikke not being able to understand sign language and Aris not having any writing materials on him, he just nods. "I can't stand it in there." she admits quietly, giving him a sympathetic look. "Those may be kinsmen, but they act like full-blooded Nibeneans with all their patter."

_Great_. The centurion sighs loud enough for her to get the meaning. Perhaps they'll do him a mercy and leave him be.

When they got close enough, the guards simply tilted their heads in acknowledgement and opened the doors for Rikke and Aris, allowing them to walk straight into the palace without interruption. He realises then that Rikke had been waiting for him. He didn't have Caius alongside; so explaining his business to the guardsmen would have been a difficult affair. Aris grimaces. He doesn't know if he should be feeling patronized or merely thankful for the development. It also brings another thought to mind. He'd have to ask whether anyone else around here knew sign language, or could learn it. He had a fair few unique gestures for certain words that wouldn't crop up anywhere else, slang terms he used as a child that he'd never outgrown, but overall, the majority of them were the same. There are only a select number of people who can teach it, after all. Aris couldn't carry a pencil and paper around everywhere, and if he was going to be staying in a civilian setting for long, he'd have to find a less painful solution than regular speech.

He snaps his head down when he finds himself walking on spotless marble tiles, his boots clanking loudly enough to make him jump. Rikke has been just as loud, but as numerous people began to turn their heads around to stare at the two heavily armoured Legionnaires, Aris tries to lighten his footfall ever so slightly. Climbing up the stairs into the throne chamber, he scanned the wide room and the people inside it. Wealthy prats, by the look of them, sipping expensive wine in memory of their recently departed High King and fluttering around, chatting harmlessly with an air that makes him uncomfortable. The sudden stereotype makes Aris frown to himself - he shouldn't be that quick to judge. His father was rubbing off on him it seemed.

Speaking of him, the centurion spots the general standing off to one side, calmly talking to a far older woman who was shadowed by a tall, looming fellow Aris couldn't quite make out properly. Though he expressed little concern; his father seemed unbothered and he had four bodyguards watching his every move. His father is hardly unprotected.

"Ah, I didn't expect to see you so early." the general says guardedly and Aris stands a respectable distance away, clicking his heels together smartly and sending a fist into his plate. Per usual. Though he does send a glance towards the old woman, in silent question, who is staring at him with a searching look he doesn't quite like. Or trust. The general follows his gaze and nods. "Jarl Idgrod, may I introduce Centurion Aristaeus Tullius, the current leading cohort commander under Legate Rikke. Centurion, this is Idgrod Ravencrone, Jarl of Hjaalmarch." Aris wasn't sure how to respond to her, so he did the usual; clicking his boots and bowing at the waist.

It seemed to work at any rate, the general wasn't glaring at him and Jarl Idgrod didn't seem in any way offended.

"A son?" the Jarl asks, looking at Tullius.

The general kept his face impassive as always. "That would be correct."

The older woman smiles and for some reason, it looked odd on her face. Like she was thinking of her own private joke of sorts. "I can see the resemblance." then she turns back to Aris. "A pleasure, commander." Aris nods his head, slightly deeper than usual. He hoped he got the message across. The old woman was swimming in the tidewater of her seventh decade. Her deep wrinkles seemed to carve a map of her life on her still sharp facial features. With winkling eyes framed by thick dark eyebrows, she'd seem almost like any other elder, but there was something about her. Something Aris only really saw with ancient mages fifty years his senior. Something... _else_. He couldn't put his finger on it.

Aris doesn't say anything as the general and Jarl Idgrod make their farewells, nor does he when they are relatively alone. In the end, it's the general who has to ask. Shifting slightly, his father tugs at the cloak that was falling awkwardly over his shoulder and frowns, giving his son a glance.

"Did you see to your new men?"

Aris nods, gaze flickering around at all the other individuals in the room. Biting back his unease, he makes a Y handshape and follows it on with a slight sweeping movement. No point letting nerves get in the way. The general watches his hands as he signs through the rest, nodding.

It's during the discussion about Aris' new troops that she sneaks up on them. Or rather, she sneaks up on the centurion; the general is facing her and as a result saw her approaching over his son's shoulder. "Hang on." his father grunts, changing his posture and slipping on a mask of apathetic consideration, keeping his expression blank, but with the faint crease in the brow that warns against wasting a general's precious time. It's slightly more polite than the mask he uses with Legionnaires, but the 'speak and speak quickly, soldier' attitude is still there.

The general doesn't bother around Aris, usually, the boy can see right through it.

The woman was young. No more than a few years older than Aris, at most. She stood taller than him too, but that wasn't exactly a notable achievement. Most people were taller than Aris, but with what he lacked in height, he made up for with a compact and powerful frame. This woman, meanwhile looked as if the wind could blow her over. A strawberry blonde, with hair that was kept back neatly with pins and the decorative gold circlet and her eyes like the ocean, were pools of iridescent blue, but Aris noticed the pain in them, a faint, lingering emotion. It hit him as soon as his father spoke, both hands folded behind his back as he cleared his throat. The very picture of a made military man. Aris found himself adopting the general's stance subconsciously.

"Jarl Elisif."

The woman, Elisif, smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "General Tullius." her gaze travels over towards Aris and it lingers, then snaps over towards the general again. She must sum something up because the general quickly becomes uncomfortable - not they would know it of course, it was a micro-expression, one Aris was used to looking out for and it barely lasted more than a second before the general controlled it.

"Aris, why don't you go and... report in to the Legate, she'll brief you on what we'll be going through."

Aris brings his hands up, looking around. He asks where is she is and the general is just about to reply when Elisif cuts in politely. "The soldier with the armour like yours? I do believe she was talking to one of my Thanes, Bryling, over near the staircase."

The centurion freezes with his hands still up. Her comment was so sudden, so far from what he was expecting that he just ended up staring at her open mouthed. His brain formulated no other thoughts then the scrambled realisation that he was indeed, startled. He closed his mouth, looked at his boots before glancing back up against to catch her eye.

"Well." the general manages to suppress the majority of his surprise. Though he can't come up with something else to say, not without putting Aris off balance or making Elisif uncomfortable.

'You understand sign?' Aris tries then, tentatively, half expecting the general to suddenly spin around and bite his head off. Thankfully, he doesn't, just watches his son's hands in the corner of his eye while appearing to look at Elisif.

"I do." Elisif smiles. Aris' body language screamed of relief and approval.

Excusing himself with a polite hand gesture, the general moves over to converse with a fiery looking Nord that was standing a few feet away, watching the exchange carefully. Elisif examined the centurion for a few moments. "Well. Um..." she grinned uneasily. "Sorry, but are you mute then?"

Aris nodded, then shrugged. 'Damaged voice, can't use it comfortably enough to bother.' he was still surprised, very surprised indeed, that she'd could even hold a conversation with him at all. She on the other hand was delighted to find someone to talk to in this stupid gathering.

"I wouldn't think it would be easy for a soldier." she says carefully, still polite, even on a personal scale that none of them seemed too keen to get onto. Aris kept his unease under wraps, gaze occasionally flickering over to where his father stood, who no longer paying them much attention and was deep in conversation with the redheaded Nord.

'Sadly, I'm one of few people aside from the general to know it.' Aris replies

"May I ask, doesn't it make your job harder? I get the impression of you leading soldiers. Communication must be an issue."

Aris pauses, trying to find a way to explain. 'I get by.' then he shrugs. 'I have a second-in-command who is very good at shouting.'

"And a father too." Elisif says, then backtracks immediately, surprised by her outburst. Aris puts his hand up slightly, gesturing that it's fine - that she's correct. "You must forgive me, but I was unaware that the general had a son. He did not mention anything."

'For my benefit.' he shrugged again. 'Most people don't think I can hear them.'

That made her laugh, if only slightly. "You could use that your advantage." though Aris did not smile as freely, his posture was not as stiff or formal as before, his motions somewhat more enthusiastic. "If you don't mind me saying so, you're the easiest man to talk to here."

The Legionnaire bowed his head in a gesture she recognised instantly as modesty. Then his posture shifts as a taller fair-haired fellow suddenly swooped in on Elisif's right. "The hearing is about to begin, my lady." he wasn't as broad in the shoulders as Aris, nor was did he express the same kind of impressive stature, but rather held an air of self-importance. He paused to look at the centurion, as if he hadn't seen him standing there. "Ah, you must be one of the general's men." Aris nods. "Getting along are you?"

Elisif purses her lips and gives the blonde haired male a slight frown. "Yes, Erikur. You should try speaking to the brave men who are out fighting the war more often. It never hurts to be polite."

"Mmm, of course, my lady." Erikur smiles. "I'm very familiar with the war effort. Now, you look familiar, have I seen you before?"

Aris shook his head. Glancing at Elisif, who understood the faint plead for help and smiled thinly. "This is... Aris," the centurion nods slightly, ensuring her that she had got it right. "One of General Tullius' most trusted officers, and his son, I do believe. Perhaps that is where the resemblance is from."

He pretended not to notice the way Erikur suddenly squirmed unhappily. "Ah, fresh out of training then, I assume?"

Aris tilts his head, then shook it slowly in an answer to the question. He's been a soldier for four years. Hardly fresh out of training. He extended four fingers, hoping the Nord got the message.

"Four years?" Aris nodded in response. "That would make you, what, twenty two, then?" something was seeping into Erikur's voice as he spoke. Shaking his head again, Aris held up both his hands, all of his fingers and flashed them twice. "Twenty?" Erikur stared Aris down from the tips of his boots to the combed ends of his hair. "Forgive me, you look much older. Doesn't the customary training for young officers end at age eighteen?"

Aris gave no sign that Erikur was being in any way offensive. Instead, he simply nodded politely, merely answering the question.

"Ah, that is very interesting." Erikur faced Elisif then. "If you will excuse me my lady, I will go take my place." wordlessly, Elisif waved him away gently and the man gave one last look at Aris before turning around and moving over towards a different door placed off to one side. Likely the room they will be holding council in. As soon as he got out of earshot, Elisif apologised.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have let him bother you. I don't think age should mean anything."

Aris gave that small shrug again, before bringing his hands up.

'I finished my official lessons at sixteen.'

* * *

**{**III**}**

* * *

It was after the official proceedings that the opportunity arose. Most of the guests had already taken their leave, either returning back to their respective holds or spending the evening in whichever accommodation they had secured for the night.

Aris was standing neatly out of the way as the general and the resident Captain of the Guard, Aldis, went over deployment and security matters when a nervous little man with dark hair boldly made his way in to have audience with Elisif. At first, neither soldier bothered to have much of an interest in the goings on, but the tale of strange occurrences near Dragon's Bridge soon snagged Aris' attention. Realising that his son was no longer listening, the general had gone to put him back in his place when he too became attentive to the loud happenings a few feet away.

"I swear to you, unnatural magics are coming from that cave! There are strange noises and lights, we need someone to investigate!"

"Raving lunatic." his father makes to turn around.

But Elisif's sudden response made him stop in his tracks. "Then we will immediately send out a legion to scour the cave and secure the town. Haafingar's people will always be safe under my rule." She gives a look towards the general, who keeps his expression controlled, but his voice was far more forceful than before.

"With all due respect, Jarl Elisif, that 'Legion' you have just described is the _entirety_ of _my_ fighting force." Aris manages to hold back the smirk, but instead exhales slowly. "Surely you do not need _every_ available Legionnaire crowding the streets of Dragon Bridge?" _Nor will you have them_ seemed to be left lingering, but if anyone noticed, they didn't say anything.

"Your eminence, my scrying has suggested nothing in the area. Dragon Bridge is under Imperial control. This is likely superstitious nonsense." a heavily robed, somewhat menacing woman, the Court Mage, or something of similar description pipes up and the general frowns. Though he doesn't go back to his earlier conversation. Aris suddenly has an idea, but he hesitates, unsure as how to get the general's attention in a respectful manner that wouldn't result in him getting a dressing down when they returned to Castle Dour. He wasn't too keen on that idea.

But this, _this_ could be the opportunity he was waiting for.

"Perhaps a more... tempered reaction... might be called for?"

Glancing towards the general as the others begin to argue among themselves. Aris moves forwards and taps his father's forearm gently. The man in question half spins around, frowning at Aris. "What is it, Centurion?"

'Why not send me and my men?' Aris suggests. The way the court was looking at him suggested some unease; they didn't know what he was saying, or more likely, what he was even doing. Elisif however paid more attention. 'I could observe my new troop's worth before the fighting begins.'

The general looks displeased, but thoughtful. "As Stentor has just said, soldier, it's likely to only be nonsense." then he folds his arms. "I'm sure there are other, far more resourceful, ways of responding to this... _matter_."

"With all due respect, sir." Aris speaks, properly, though quietly and the general changes his posture so obviously that Aris very nearly bolts then and there. The healing potions had done quite a bit to stop the pain, though his throat had been tender throughout the day. Now the all too familiar stab returned again when he started speaking. "My men need to understand that I am capable of leading them. I have yet to show them in battle and until Ulfric makes a move, which could be a few weeks away at least. They don't know that" By the Gods, he was going to _die_. "Should we not kill two birds with one stone? Obviously the matter is enough to cause worry." he gestures towards the nervous Varnius for emphasis.

"It's not your place to be telling me what is obvious and what is not, soldier." the general replies, levelly.

"Of course, sir."

"Regardless. The Centurion has a point." the general eventually admits and turns towards Elisif. "Providing it is just a matter of superstition, I'm sure his men can handle it. Within reason, of course - they belong to the Legion after all."

It went unsaid, but the meaning was clear. _They follow my orders, not yours._

Aris frowns ever so slightly.

_Which is precisely why I asked you and not her. _He thinks, listening as the others talk among themselves again. Eventually Falk nods his head, looking at Aris properly for the first time that evening. "We would be thankful for such, General. We should also assign a few extra soldiers to Dragon Bridge."

The general makes a small noise, giving Aris a short look before turning his attention back to Falk. "What you do with your own guardsmen is not of my concern."

Aris swallows. Nervously. He was going to get the shouting of a lifetime. Defiantly. Ah well, it could be far worse, he thinks... right?

He just hopes that's the case.

* * *

**{**III**}**

* * *

He doesn't get a dressing down, but instead the general applied a more... direct tactic.

If Aris wanted to send his men to scour some cave, fine, but he was responsible for the outcome and he had to tend to all the details himself. It left Aris inside his office for the better part of the night, pushing through orders and paperwork in order to get everything sorted before he left. It also meant that he didn't get to read the letter. It remained unopened and ignored.

By the time he had finished, there was just enough time to get a late dinner before he'd be turning in. He had just picked up his rations and collected a decent cooked meal when Adventus seemingly materialized next to him, nearly giving Aris a heart attack in the process.

"Hey." he lowered his voice. "So, uh... Rikke told me that you seemed to be getting along well with the Jarl. She's nice, eh?"

Aris nodded, unsure of where this conversation was headed.

Adventus had a little knowing smile on his unshaven face. "You find you had something in common then, kiddo? Just curious, you know me, I'm the worst gossip. Your father can't stand it."

Again, Aris nodded, meaning he and Elisif had found some form of common ground.

"Ah. I see." Adventus looked away, raised his eyebrows, and glanced back towards Aris, who was now shifting uncomfortably. "Don't go telling the Legate, eh, but Rikke mentioned that the Jarl liked you. At least from what she saw, hiding in the blinkin' corner."

The centurion pauses at the small twinge in his midsection. What in Oblivion does _that_ mean?

With a knowing smile, Adventus just shook his head. "And don't worry about the general, little buddy - I've known him long enough to know when he's nervous. If he really, _really_ didn't want you to go, he would have stopped you, but you can't blame him either. If anything happened, you know." the Legate pulls a face and gives Aris a sympathetic look. "Just go and make a show of how good a soldier you are and he'll stop holding you back, I say." he's just about to turn away when he smirks again. "As for the Jarl, she only lives across town, you know."

Aris felt his face grow warm, watching as the Legate wanders off, shouting bloody murder at a few soldiers loitering across the courtyard to his right. That was, without a doubt, the most uncomfortable discussion he'd had in a long time. It was worse than the 'I swear to the Eight, if I wind up with any grandchildren while you're gone, I'll beat you senseless.' lecture his mother gave just before they set off for Skryim and _that_ experience had been incredibly uncomfortable in itself.

That thought makes something in his chest ache. Dammit. He'll have to get that letter done when he gets back. Remembering what the Legate said about getting held behind, he frowns. His first endeavour in Skyrim. That future prospect of thundering down battlefields as an Imperial General seemed not to distant away and he exhales. He's ready for this. This he knows. He's trained for a long time; since he was twelve, and it wasn't like he had been going downhill in any way. No. He was going to this; he'll show his father that he's ready. Show his men that the Stormcloaks have it coming. They'll start with this little matter here, then they'll continue this war properly and beat this little rebellion down into the ground.

With a smirk, Aris straightened up, imagining himself back at a Colovian parade ground, and strode briskly down the empty, cold halls of Castle Dour, the very picture of a devoted military man.


	4. The Man who Cried Wolf

**{|}** Cadavera Vero Innumera **{|}**

* * *

Chapter IV : The Man who Cried Wolf.

It feels like shaved ice, if only thinner. Huge blankets of white, smothering every surface it touches in magnificent waves of frozen water. The wind was just as sharp, howling past and piling up snow in drifts. It's when it begins to pick up that he rides bent over against the cold, protecting his eyes with an extended hand, watching as the denuded trees and scatter of mountainside around them vanishes, becoming swallowed up. It's a very periodic affair. The wind dies down again almost as quickly as it came, allowing for the commander to lower his hand for a few minutes and the air around them to clear. Flakes of snow fall downwards slowly around them, settling on their cloaked shoulders and atop of their helmets. Hectic to peaceful and then back again. Just like that.

"Not a soul around." one Legionnaire, an auxiliary in one of the newly formed tent groups, says.

Another one, a large shouldered Nord likely in the same group as the first snorts. "That's just what _they_ want you to think."

Aris wondered who 'they' were, fiddling with the edge of the reins as he stares dully forwards, evaluating and considering the set task before him silently.

The drawn out growl of the Legionnaire's commanding sergeant, however stops their talk almost immediately and the two Nords back down without any further comments. They know better than to complain now, Aris is sure. Especially to their Decanus.

Darius Hananya ambles along beside Aris' horse, quiet and attentive, the way he always is before a job. Despite being weighed down by fifty pounds of plate, he has little problem with keeping up with the commanding centurion, powering on through the developing snowdrifts as if it simply wasn't there. If Aris hadn't known Hananya for a good few years, he'd likely be as surprised as the auxiliaries moving behind them were. The men weren't unfit, per say, nor were they unacclimated to wearing the armour of an Imperial Legionnaire, but rather, they lacked the sheer experience and full blown consistency that comes with spending thirty odd years in the Legion.

Hananya, meanwhile, had all of those elements perfected; and it shows.

"You see that?" he asks, turning his head up towards Aris on the back of his mount and then back at an inky dark spot cut into the mountainside. Aris leans forwards, peering into the vague space in which Hananya was looking at.

He nods his head, but he doesn't venture any further. They had pretty much reached their destination anyway, so he drops off his horse and grabs the reins. He'd discussed what was to happen with the decanus over breakfast; no sooner than Aris nods, the larger Imperial gets to work in ordering the men.

"Listen up, fourth stay out here and keep watch; we don't want anything coming in surprising us. Stay within a mile radius of the cave opening. If you precious little dearies need to keep dry, sit in the mouth and take turns. Third and fifth are to with us, keep low and quiet-"

"What in Oblivion-!" one of the soldiers suddenly exclaims and Aris spins around, drawing his sword with a practiced flourish and facing down, of all things, a _skeleton_.

It takes him by surprise, but it takes a few crucial seconds for the bag of bones to creek it's way close enough to get a swing in and by this point, Aris has lifted up his shield and smashed it roughly under its chin. The force sends its skull popping off and sailing upwards into the air, leaving its headless body to clatter harmlessly against the floor. Bones scattering, rolling to an eventual standstill in the snow. "Another one up ahead!" Hananya warns, pointing with the blade of his sword. Aris has spotted it just about quickly enough to rip his arm up again, the muscle in his triceps straining when the impact of what felt like an arrow hits the base of his shield.

One of the soldiers manages to break it in half with a well-aimed swipe of the sword and Hananya grimaces, turning around in a circle and examining the area around them.

"They were guarding the cave." one of the auxiliaries, a stocky young giant who had whiskers growing raggedly on his chin and jaw length brown hair, points towards the entrance. Aris gives the soldier a glance, sheaths his sword, before pointing rather obviously at him. The soldier frowns. "Sir?"

"What's your name, soldier?" Hananya grunts. Aris doesn't look at him, but rather keeps his gaze locked on the younger one.

"Oh. Hadvar of Riverwood, sir."

Aris points at him again, then makes the universal sign for them to form behind. He's not too sure if they'll understand him, but it helps, he supposes, that Hananya does. The bigger Imperial immediately forms up, giving a few nasty glares at the soldiers who were hesitating. The lot in Fourth start scouting out the intimidate area and Aris leaves them to their work. Two skeletons guarding a cave; it hints at darker things to come. Aris idly wonders what he's stepping into here - clearly, the fellow who caused a stir up in the Blue Palace yesterday wasn't some lunatic, nor was he stressing nonsense. Skeletons, at least, walking ones, weren't naturally occurring.

And to think that everyone back in Solitude was so adamant that they'd find absolutely nothing of interest here. It seems the general's 'Man who Cried Wolf' prediction was wrong after all.

The cave entrance loomed before him, a mouth of impenetrable blackness. Over past his shoulder, one of the men begins to light up a torch, who then gave it to Aris when he passed a hand behind him. The flames licked his armoured forearms, but he paid it little attention as he stepped inside, watching as his feet dissolved into the surrounding darkness. It was dank in here, the snow having fallen further in and the only thing he could hear at the moment was the sound of dripping water. Turning around, Aris motioned for them to be quiet, before drawing his sword.

A few feet away from the cave entrance and it begins to dry out slightly, muddy dirt being replaced by a rockier under-footing the deeper in they went. The faint glow of light further down the narrow passage confirmed their suspicions; whatever they were dealing with, _people_ were involved. Passing through single file, Aris hesitates slightly when he turns a corner into a far wider section of cave. Before him, a discarded wooden cart was left toppled over on its side, directly in front of a set of crude looking traps. Someone had tied numerous bones - human ones, Aris realises with a grimace - and had hung them from the roof of the cave, creating some kind of chime. Not a trap, then, per say, but rather a form of warning system.

Clearly whoever was down here didn't want to be taken by surprise, or wanted to be interrupted.

Aris tightened the grip on his sword.

They could get around the traps if they climbed over a small rock formation that split the area into two. Aris had gone over first, landing nimbly and making his way over towards a tunnel of sorts, dark and cramped, with barely enough room to move. More than once the plate on his shoulder catches. It's a sprawling downwards climb and as they get further and further down, he realises the temperature was dropping sharply. Enough to feel the difference every few meters or so, though this time it didn't feel quite right, like the coldness wasn't down to the cave itself. He's not used to Skyrim's temperature, perhaps he's just oversensitive. None of the other soldiers were shivering, after all. Pressing himself against the cave wall in order to avoid stepping in a thick collection of mushrooms, he stops again when he gets into a slightly larger room.

There was a grunt further down and without missing a beat, Aris turned and handed the torch to Hananya, telling the other Legionnaires to stay put before moving towards a large natural column and leaning himself against it. There comes the faint pat of bare feet slapping against solid rock and once he realised that they weren't alone, Hananya moves back so he's not able to be seen that easily, with the hand that is carrying the torch outstretched, away from his body and face. Whatever is coming towards them will see the torch, undoubtedly, perhaps the hand too, but not much else.

Another animalistic sounding grunt and the feet speed up, intent on investigating, gait sluggish and all around inhuman. When he feels a presence of something by his side, Aris sends his arm out quickly, bringing his blade down upon whatever in Oblivion it was. The sharp metal sunk down greedily into thin, almost papery flesh. When he looks at what he had hit, Aris' expression drops and he very nearly rears backwards in mute terror. Its speed was unnatural for something that is just skin and bones, eyes large and wide, empty in the sockets of their skull. The long fingers of its free hand grasp for him, swinging its other arm back to take a hit-

Hananya jumps in just at the right moment, batting the... thing over the head with the torch. The air around them suddenly became thick and oppressive as it sets on fire, the smoke scorched Aris' nostrils and stung his eyes. He jumps backwards in order to avoid it, narrowly missing the blade of an ancient war axe as the creature begins to flail about, half shrieking, half growling in obvious distress. The hem of his cloak actually sets alight when he spins out of the way, but it's of little concern to Aris. With a fading noise of death, the creature crumpled to the floor in a charred heap and it's only after he slams the toes of his boat straight into its neck and he confirms that it is indeed dead that he bothers to put his cloak out, patting it down harshly with an open palm.

"What. Was, _that_?!" Hananya demands, glancing at Aris, who gives him a small shrug in the way of reply.

Behind his unfazed facade, Aris was downright unnerved by what he saw before him. Partly because he was taken off guard, partly because he's sworn he has seen something just like this before, or, a similar one at least and the memory wasn't fond.

Aris had fought reanimated corpses before, foul smelling ghoulish creatures - the results of Necromancers, usually. Or, perhaps, something just as wrong and evil. Aris had killed people in the field, bandits, small time crooks and, regrettably, violent civilian protesters, but nothing, _nothing_, could ever prepare him for fighting the undead. He downright detested it - didn't have the stomach for it, and he turns away from the rest of his men and stares into the impenetrable darkness beyond. Once again, all sorts of nonsense started filling his head.

He'd come across the undead a few times, enough to know what to stab and how quickly, how to run and evade them when they got too close - but all that never prepared him for that terrifying groan. He'd been scared silly whenever he heard it. But, then, how could he not have been? You're scouting the remnants of an old disused fort, searching for criminals your commanding officer says, walking to the sound of your fellow Legionnaire's bootsteps and then, you hear it. That unholy graveyard scream. Suddenly, there is mayhem - everyone's drawn their swords and their moving into defence positions, shields raised up, weapon held tight and sword arm bent at the elbow. You hear them shuffling as they peruse you, feet squelching even though the ground is dry. Then you turn around, sword ready to stare down that evil being... ready to take the swing, watching as they come at you with gruesome harmony.

Then the smell hits you. Sickly sweet and downright repulsive. It was thick, the stench of death and rot, almost moist. The first time Aris had come across that, he'd vomited for three days straight. Even remembering how bad it had been was enough to make the food in his stomach make an elaborate reappearance. Aris convulsed at the thought, giving the thing on the floor another glance. Yes, of course. It is best not to think about them, he thought. Just in case.

Hadvar takes the slightly battered torch from his officer and frowns at the pile of burnt ancient bones and rags. "They aren't supposed to be awake."

"What aren't, boy?" Hananya mutters.

"Dragur."

At that the Decanus turns towards Aris. "Something iffy is going on here."

Yeah, no shit. Aris thinks with a frown as he turns to look further down the cave again. He supposes Hananya is considering going back to Solitude to pick up more men, but Aris has done things like this before. Whatever is down there, _whoever_ is down there, they'll notice what has happened to this... thing, as well as the two 'guards' outside the cave entrance eventually. Of course, if it doesn't snow, their footprints will be there too. They'll notice someone has been snooping around and will find somewhere else to commit their deeds. No. They have to do this now. Least the ones down here get suspicious and make a getaway.

No. They're dealing with this now.

As if to state his point, Aris moves on again, promoting Hadvar's jaw to fall slack in surprise, and then to stumble after him with the torch. Hananya clicks his tongue, but follows none the less, signalling for the others to follow his lead. This is good, he thinks. The Nord behind him was respectable enough. Seemed to hold a level of humility - a good soldier, he followed his orders, unspoken or otherwise - which just all that more pleasing to Aris in particular - even if he didn't happen to be comfortable with them. That's good. Excellent. Aris can work with this, with men like this one. "Wonder where that upper ledge leads." Aris snaps around, frowning. "Up there." Hadvar mutters and Aris turns his head up to look at said ledge. Indeed, this part of the cave seemed split into two. At first Aris had assumed that it never led anywhere, but Hadvar seemed to have spotted some form of opening.

Stopping harshly in his tracks, he tilts his head towards Hananya, then jerks it harshly in the vague direction of the space above them on the ledge. The man nods, turns on his heels and takes two of the more experienced men with him. Aris motions for the rest of them to be quiet again, then for them to stay put with a flat palm as he examines where the other way leads. He gets a few meters away and can see the glow of a nearby campfire when Hananya comes creeping up beside him. He kneels down among the dried out grass and Aris finds himself following his lead. "Three unidentifiable folks, they're dressed in robes. Could be the ones we're looking for." he whispers. "The split leads to a ledge of sorts overlooking the room. The lads have got their bows ready, they'll fire on your order. I suggest we take out the one closest to the door." Aris frowns at the term 'door' and Hananya elaborates. "That area leads towards another part of the cave. Likely a structure. Funny, I didn't think anything had been built topside."

Aris nods, shuffling forwards slowly and unhooking his shield from his back, sliding it onto his right forearm and securing the straps.

The robed figure near the door had her back to him as he slowly approached. Sneaking in heavy Imperial armour however is not exactly easy, nor achievable; she hears the faint jangle of his plate just when he gets within arm's reach. The High Elf turns almost immediately, brow furrowed and expression sharp - clearly, she hadn't been expecting him, but perhaps some form of lowly creature, or an assistant. Her eyes widen when she spots the Imperial uniform and that moment's hesitation was all Aris needed to dive the hell of his hand into her windpipe and knock her hand away - better her not be able to use magic, at least, not in his direction.

Aris didn't pause; he moved around the woman so his back was no longer exposed to the two others and he slipped his sword arm around her neck, tightening his makeshift noose by grabbing his wrist with his other hand. Him not being an impressively large male, never mind a tall one, he had to bend right back to put more pull around her neck.

The two archers took this as their cue, as soon as the two other necromancers heard her strangled call of alarm, they jumped up only to be shot down again by red feathered Imperial arrows. The first one takes it in the shoulder, falling into the vague space of darkness behind him while the second catches it straight through the throat. He stands there for a few seconds, just guttering, before falling flat onto his back. Straight into the flames. Hananya and the other men made sure that they were indeed dead, while Aris swapped hands, grabbing his sword with the hand supporting his shield and awkwardly driving the blade through the unprotected stomach of the High Elf he was strangling. She wasn't prepared to do anything against him; her arms had been flailing, moving to struggle against him rather than actually fight. Once she went limp, he pushed the corpse away from him. The armour upon his stomach and chest was slick with blood. Without thinking, he brushed his hand across his chest with a grimace, smearing it. Then he realises his error. He steps back as he examines the red smears, momentarily disgusted with himself.

Aris inhales. If it's not them, it's you. He tells himself firmly. You or them. _You_, or _them_. No time for hesitation - kill it if it's hostile. It helped that these reassuring orders seemed to be spoken in the voice of his old Captain and no sooner then he's worked himself up, Aris feels himself calming down rapidly. If we hadn't killed them, he thinks, they would have killed others. Yes. They're doing good work here.

Wiping his sword, he leads his troops through the doorway. He lets two of the bigger Legionnaires take point, allowing for the majority of his men to kill the Dragurs that throw themselves at them in outspoken hostility. It's when he's decapitated his second Dragur that Aris comes the realisation that these weren't as bad as the undead he had fought before. They were more intelligent, granted, but they seemed less... horrific, at least from a duellist's standpoint. They didn't smell much when he was near them. They were dusty and dry, as opposed to resembling an actively rotting body. It's when they've cleared out the final room that he sees it.

A large gaping hole, a few meters wide in circumference. No other ways in or out, just a large, empty, hole.

"Well." Hadvar stands at the very edge, looking down into the depths. He holds the torch right over it, perhaps in some attempt to see what's down there, but the most they can see is the faint shimmer of reflective stone right at the bottom. Evidence of a floor, at least. "What do we do now?"

Aris stands closer to the edge and considers his options. On one hand, the amount of resistance they had just faced proved that whatever the root of the problem was, they were close. Whatever they were looking for was probably down there. Somewhere. On the other hand, however, he only has two troops with him - and he can only take one down there. They'd have to split. Who knows what they could face? Some profound sense of evil. He expects.

Something feels wrong about the place. Not cold. Or uncomfortable. Just plain _wrong_.

He could return to Solitude, but would they take his claim seriously? He's found a sodding hole. Yes, a few necromancers and beasties creeping around in the dark too, but from what he's gathered, such is hardly a commodity in Skyrim.

Could he really put his men up against the unknown? It's all well and good, clicking your heels and saying you'd die for the Empire, for the Emperor, but at the end of the day; a loss of life is a loss of life. His father would say. One less sword in the next battle, one less soldier in the ranks, one less man at your back.

Was it worth it?

Aris inhales, turns towards his men and splits them into two groups - the veterans, the older fellows with more than two years in the Legion, and then the younger lads. Fellows around Aris' age, but less experienced. Those who had joined the Legion only recently. He took three from each group, Hananya and Hadvar included and then turned back towards the hole. Signalling for the other group to stay put, Aris moves to the very edge, his toes hanging off the side and he slides down onto his backside, reaching himself down to plant both feel weary on some form of overhang that jutted out. It shortened the drop to about half. Reaching his hand up, he gestured for the torch, before bending down as low as he could to examine the space below him.

Unblinking, he looks through the shadows, heart pounding loudly in his ears as he tries to spot something, anything, before it spots him. It seems clear, but Aris is unsure, so he scoots around so he's facing the opposite direction. It's all the same. Nothing. But that feeling of... wrongness had seemingly amplified by about tenfold. He knows he's not the only one feeling it too - the men are quiet, attentive. On edge.

It's a feeling that holds no true form, but still manages to weave its way into all their hearts. A formless matter trapped in a cage of blood and pure adrenaline.

So he drops.

His boots slam heavily into the hard ground, knees bending with the force and his armour digging painfully into his shoulders. He's undeterred by the weight, wrenching his arm forwards to examine the area again. Nothing. Nothing at all. Lifting his head up, he looks towards Hadvar and then nods. Slowly, one by one, his little group begins to follow his lead, using the ledge as a halfway point before dropping down again to join him. Wordlessly, he passes the torch to a younger man, drawing his own sword and making his way forwards, down a passage that leads in what he expects is a north-northwesterly direction. At the bottom is some rubble, the kind one would expect from an old fort.

One by one they pass through, with Aris taking point, shield raised expectantly with his sword arm bent at the elbow, poised and expectant. As they draw closer, there is a strange thrumming, almost a tentative ice burn, running through the air. It makes his back teeth ache.

"By the Gods, what is this place?" one of the men mutters, but nobody replies.

As they enter the area properly, stood along an overlook, the man who had spoken doesn't need a reply. It quickly becomes clear that something was very, very wrong in his cave.

Around them, bright blue beams of light sear across the room in waves; the feeling was far more intense, leaving a lasting dull burn throbbing in their temples and the ache only begins to increase tenfold. To give some kind of relief, Aris clenches his jaw as hard as he can. By the Divines, what in the name of Oblivion was going on here?!

The shrill bark of chanting voices echoes around the cave walls, he's not sure where they are exactly, but they are close. Very close.

"Wolf Queen. Hear our call and awaken. We summon Potema!"

Hananya snaps his gaze over towards Aris and they share a mute look of mute horror between them.

"We summon Potema!" several voices join in, all drawled in perfect harmony. It makes him sick.

"Long have you slept the dreamless sleep of death, Potema." the first voice coos, but then it turns shrill, harsh on the ears. "No longer! Hear us Wolf Queen! We Summon You!"

"We summon Potema!"

Not on my watch. Aris suppresses a growl as he brings his gaze up from the ledge, he realises with horror at first, then determination, that all the blue lights lead up to the same platform, high above ground level and a little more than a league away, give or take. Turning around for a way down, he backtracks and locates a tunnel leading west.

A resurrected Potema. Aris doesn't know what to think. He knows _who_ she is, of course. He's done his history. Read up on the stories overnight. Queen Potema, the 'Wolf Queen of Soltiude', Daughter of the Emperor Pelagius Septim the II, Wife of King Mantiarco, Aunt of the Empress Kintyra II, mother of Emperor Uriel II and sister of the Emperors Antiochus and Cephorus. She's the monster behind the War of the Red Diamond and in 3E 120 she launched a rebellion, overthrowing her niece in the process with the intent of her son becoming emperor. A grisly tale. Although the war did theoretically end in 3E 127, it was another ten years before that evil was defeated, capped off by a month-long siege of her castle in Solitude.

His books call her 'unambiguously evil', and Aris feels inclined to agree with them. She's remembered as one of the most dangerous necromancers in the history of Tamiriel.

And here they were, about to stop her resurrection.

Pounding down the stairs and down into the dark, Aris can feel his other senses compensating as he moves. He had done visual deprivation as part of his training, but he hadn't understood just how much he'd require that skill to survive. He was glad he could hear the shift of others, even over the clanking of armour, because a lot of the time he could only make out vague shadows.

The chamber up ahead was slicked with oil. A realisation he only comes to when he feels his left foot slide out from under him, moving back violently, he hears the sudden bark of alarm coming from his far left. One of the many patrolling necromancers comes in, the crackle of magicka pounds through the air as he sends a burst of freezing cold towards the advancing legionnaires. Aris hisses when it catches him along his leg, the fabric doing nothing to protect him as it shears straight through to burn his skin. Catching the flicker of the torch over his right shoulder, he grabs it and tosses it right over his head as all the other Legionnaires scrambled to get out of the way.

It hits the floor with a soft thunk, setting the oil alight. The necromancer doesn't get away quickly enough and he's left screaming. The death call carried like a mournful song, right up until one of the passing Legionnaires manages to silence him. The rest of his little coven must have heard him - they'll know they've got company. Ignoring the stomach churning smell of burning flesh, the cohort commander pushes on, ploughing straight into a trio of Dragur with Hananya and Hadvar at his back. Another one comes up from his right and Aris snarls under his breath. He feels weighed down here.

Adjusting his grip on his sword, he slips his arm free of his shield and letting it clatter harmlessly against the floor. Unlike a lot of other Legionnaires Aris had been training long enough to actually be more than just capable without a shield. It wasn't common and wasn't touched on in basic training, but in the Academy, it was common for them to err on the side of tradition rather than practicality. He just happened to be better at it than the others.

This he told himself as the first Dragur slammed into him, but Aris greeted it with an upward slash and an outward thrust with his left hand, pushing it away roughly. Hit the vitals. Go for the kill. He heard his captain shouting in his head. Every move you make that isn't final drains energy, energy you won't have for another fight later, when you'll need it most. Dodging the enraged swipe from the Dragur, Aris clenches his jaw again, stepping out of its way and moving around. It had to spin around to face him.

His sword bit into rank, thin flesh and slammed through bone, making his wrist jerk uncomfortably. He shook his head mentally. Too high. He didn't want to hit the rib cage - he doesn't think the undead bleed out like people do. It growled angrily and raked its filthy hand towards his shoulder, grasping at the metal and tugging him closer. In order to break free, Aris slams the crest of his helmet straight into its jaw, seizing his sword free as he does so, moving away again. This wasn't like training; this thing didn't use moves he understood. Logical moves a person would make.

Setting his mouth into a thin line, Aris counted grimly. He really wished he had the leisure to watch the Nordic fellows, assess their style, see how they adapt to tackling the undead, considering how a lot of them would have done this before, but this was his first fight as a real commanding officer and he didn't want to come out of it looking worse than an untrained military brat. It mattered that he earned their respect. He lashed his leg out and he combined the kick with an angled blade thrust, both connected and the Dragur went down. He spun to meet the other one, who had tried twice to get in and help its unread comrade, but Aris had been too quick, moving out of the way and leave it trailing. Hananya had dealt with his and turned towards Aris, but by the time the bigger Imperial had managed to get even remotely close to him, the cohort commander had popped it in the heart with his sword and danced back to avoid getting clawed while it was in his dead throes.

Hananya kicks his shield towards him. "Not bad." he said at last.

Aris gives him a glance, but simply turns his head towards the lower sections of the ruin. They needed to get down there. Turning slightly, he took off at another jog and his men ran after him. A lot of them were blooded - battle ready and hardened and it seemed that the younger ones were well on their way to joining them. The route took them in a deceptive manner, so it took longer than they would have believed to reach it, even going at a full run. Good thing he had been training or he would've fallen behind. As it was, he just barely kept in front of his troop and the pace he set carried them a long distance, only being occasionally interrupted by a necromancer or a Dragur.

The cohort commander frowns heavily, how come the Dragur were not attacking the necromancers? Had they been bound in some way? Aris wasn't sure how such a fate came to be, he was no mage, but he couldn't help but think it over as he fought.

They rounded a bend and faced off a peculiar looking area. It led upwards, but it looked misleading. Lifting a hand up, Aris signalled for his men to come to a halt before waving half of them around towards the far end. They'd go in from two different angles, so if this was a trap it wouldn't catch all of them at once.

They lunged for Hananya's group first, alongside a younger fellow who was at his side. There was four of them and two necromancers coming down the steps, Aris and his troop took the two necromancers, leaving Hananya's more experienced soldiers to deal with the Dragurs. Aris swung his sword, missed, but came back with a ferocious slam and cracked one necromancer straight in the temple. The other one spun, correctly judging him as the greater threat, decked out in an officer's plate as he was. She flung off what looked to be some kind of magical projectile at him and he braced for the attack, but at the last moment rolled away. As she turned to face him again, one of his men took her across the back of the knees and she fell, before being silenced.

Aris slipped him a small little grin, spinning away and launching up the stairs just as Hananya's lot finished. They must have cleared out the majority of the force now and as he looks over his shoulder, he realises with a quick pang of pride that nobody had been killed and none of them, as far as he could tell, injured. One fellow had changed hands and was cradling his arm a little more protectively than before, but he seemed well enough to continue.

He wasn't sure how things worked in Skyrim, but in Cyrodiil, a soldier was quick to state when he wasn't in good nick. It put the others at risk otherwise. Personal pride did not come before your fellow soldier's lives.

They encountered little resistance as they worked their way up, proving his early theory of having thinned down their numbers by a good amount. One of them gets lucky however and manages to cut the back of his hand. It had hit his gauntlet, but the blade carried on and managed to cut through the flesh of his upper fingers. Aris managed to get a better look at it in the lighter of areas. It stung like an absolute bitch, but he could still flex them - that's all that mattered.

The blue beams around them become thicker and the ache intensified. One of then groans, nauseous, but just shakes it off. Then something snaps. It's become apparent that the necromancer's ritual is about to reach it's end, or something has gone awfully wrong.

He can't help himself, he barks out a curse when he hears it.

"Yes! Yes! Return me to this realm!"

Hananya doesn't say anything about it, or even looks at him, but scowls and pushes himself further. They're running out of time. He turns his head towards Aris, running side-by-side. "What do we do?"

Aris has absolutely no idea how to stop it, but getting to the ritual leaders seems like the best idea thus far. So he goes with that, pushing on a little harder to get his meaning across. Hananaya looks grim, worried almost, but nods all the same.

He wasn't about to let some royal long dead necromancer take over Haafingar. Not on his watch.


End file.
